


What's On the Table

by cortue



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 2x13 - Dead Reckoning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortue/pseuds/cortue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold is fairly certain this is a fruitless endeavor, but he finds he can’t forget the question now that he’s asked it of himself.  What does John actually enjoy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's On the Table

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [What's On the Table 尘埃落定（Translation/翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828916) by [sandunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)



> Yes, the (cooking) pun in the title is intentional. Yes, I should probably be more sorry about it than I am. Originally posted to tumblr [here](http://cortue.tumblr.com/post/48491522485/whats-on-the-table). Many thanks to all the nice things people said about it.

Harold has spent years perfecting the casual, pleasant, easily forgettable date – the sort of evening that might be followed by another date or two but in the end will resolve itself into a mutually agreed parting of the ways. If anyone were to look into any of his aliases, they’d find a handful of women or men that would all give versions of the same story, ‘Oh, Harold? He’s nice enough, but it just didn’t work out, you know? To be honest, he’s kind of boring. Don’t think he gets out much.’ That is, of course, exactly how he wants people to see him, but he likes to think he has not forgotten how to set up a truly enjoyable date.

So, on the occasion where he misreads one of their numbers, when the man ends up being uncomfortable at all the attention he receives from the wait staff at the high end restaurant that Harold had sent him and John to and John has to save the evening by leading him away to get spicy noodles in Chinatown instead, Harold is not sure where he made a mistake. 

“Not everyone’s idea of a good time involves dinner at Balthazar’s,” John teases him and Harold is nonplussed because of course people who don’t enjoy duck shepard’s pie are objectively incorrect, and because suddenly he finds himself wondering what exactly John’s idea of a good time would be.

It’s not an easy question to answer. It’s not like John has hobbies, exactly, other than inflicting grievous bodily harm on criminals, and that’s not the sort of activity one would set up deliberately. Harold’s not even sure what John does when they’re not working together. He just – comes when he’s called, from wherever he is.

He could always ask John, of course, but it’s unlikely he would answer directly. Rather, Harold imagines him saying something along the lines of ‘And what would the _relevance_ of that be, exactly?’ in that smirking, pleased with himself way that he has when he has managed to sift out the worst joke possible to make in any given situation. His eyes though would be sharp and much better at picking this, whatever this is, apart than Harold is. Why should he care what John does when there are no numbers coming in? He shouldn’t. He doesn’t. It’s not his business.

Which is why Harold would be hard pressed to explain how he ends up delivering information about the next new number to John in person, at his apartment, at seven in the morning. The only way it could be more awkward timing is if John had not been awake, but he answered the door quickly enough. He’d been in the middle of eating breakfast, still in the clothes he did his morning jog in. He raises his eyebrows at seeing Harold at his door, not surprised but amused, maybe. Harold has a sudden impulse to fix John's hair. There’s a section in the front that’s almost sliding into his eyes; it must be distracting him.

“We have another number,” Harold says, walking past him so that he can let Bear off his leash. “I thought it would be more efficient if we share a cab.”

“You live within walking distance?” John asks.

“Sometimes,” Harold says, barely reacting to the question. He is no longer flustered by the idea of John trying to dig into the locations of his residences around the city. He could sell them off as quickly as John finds them, if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. It’s not really a question of trust anymore. He doesn’t mind John knowing about (most) of them, but he isn’t compelled to give him the information outright, either. John seems to enjoy it more this way, almost like it’s a game to him.

Harold tries to look around the place while John is changing for any sign of what he does with his spare time other than spy on his employer. It’s completely unsuccessful. The only thing John has added to this apartment apart from his arsenal is the set of pans currently drying in the rack. Harold hadn’t thought to buy cookware for the loft. It’s not like he ever needs to cook. Neither does John, for that matter.

If John’s going to anyway, though, Harold can certainly afford much nicer pans than these. Harold’s no expert, but he would guess they’ve been picked up at the Housing Works thrift shop a few blocks away. They’re practical, unobtrusive, well cared for but obviously used. Not exactly the sort of thing someone who paid millions for a loft overlooking Central Park would own. So when John calls him a week later, asking why there is a stack of packages from Sur la Table in his apartment, Finch merely states that these pots better suit his cover. He then transitions into talking about their new number, glad that John is on the other side of the city and unable to discern the slight reddening he can feel at the back of his neck. It’s not a lie, the Le Cruset set will stick out much less in contrast to the rest of the loft if anyone ever goes there to do some digging, but that doesn’t cover the time Harold spent researching which set to buy, as opposed to just choosing the most expensive brand.

-

Harold is fairly certain this is a fruitless endeavor, but he finds he can’t forget the question now that he’s asked it of himself. What does John actually enjoy? He has John accompany him on his walks with Bear --‘he is _your dog_ , Mr. Reese,” Harold keeps insisting -- and he takes them through all different areas of the city, trying to see if John’s eyes linger anywhere in particular. He’s starting to think he really isn’t good at this when he notice John eying the same French restaurant that he had been looking at a week ago, when they were heading for the Highline park.

John sees him looking and shrugs. “They have good crepes,” he says, by way of explanation. At this point, Harold’s not willing to let even such a small indication of preference go, so he feigns a sudden hunger and has them sit at one of the outside tables to order. The food is good, and Harold says so, but John seems slightly preoccupied, like he is trying to work something out. Finally, he sits back, looking pleased with himself. 

“Mine are better,” he says confidently.

“Oh?” Harold asks, not sure where he was going with this.

“They used to be anyway,” John says and then after an almost deliberate seeming pause, “I don’t have a crepe pan at the moment.”

“That can,” the words are coming out of Harold’s mouth before he realizes he intends to say them, “be rectified.”

Harold buys the pan that day, in the store as opposed to online. It’s not worth the shipping when he can simply hand deliver it. That’s just logic talking, he tells himself, multiple times over the next few days. He feels strangely apprehensive at the thought of going to John’s loft with just the pan and no other excuse, but when he actually articulates the feeling to himself like that he feels ridiculous. 

The next morning, he’s at John’s door.

“Another number?” John asks.

“No,” Harold says, and then before he can lose his nerve. “I thought you would appreciate this.” He holds out the pan.

John takes it, inclining his head slowly. “Just in time for breakfast,” he remarks, bringing it into the kitchen to wash. “Care to join me?”

Harold does, and the smoked salmon crepes John makes are one of the most delicious things he’s eaten in a while.

“Mr. Reese, I must say I’m impressed,” Harold says, when they’ve finished.

John looks up from where he is blatantly feeding some of the scraps to Bear, despite Harold’s warnings about the kind of behaviors he is engendering in the dog, because, as he says only when he wants to get his way and not in the cases where actual work is involved, ‘I thought he was _my_ dog, Harold.’ This time, Harold keeps his opinions to himself, and John says simply, “Anytime, Harold.”

Harold hadn't intended to take him at his word, and yet it becomes something that they do, when they have the time. Harold and John stop at particular restaurants on their walks, ones that John picks out by a slightly longer than average glance at their menus. A few days later, Harold finds himself going to John’s apartment with some new item to complete his kitchen and John reproduces the meal they had eaten at the restaurant, often improving it in Harold's objective opinion. It’s comfortable, it’s even pleasant at times. Harold sees no reason to examine it further, until one night John is making fajitas and Harold manages to burn his hand on the side of the cast iron skillet. 

John reacts quickly, taking him by the wrist to the sink to run cold water over it, so quickly that Harold barely has time to even notice the pain before he’s noticing how strong John’s hands are. It’s hardly a surprising fact given his line of work. Harold cannot account for why he’s so intently aware of it, but he doesn’t have time to examine that when he suddenly feels acutely aware of how close they are standing together, of every place their bodies are almost touching, of, of so many things. What exactly are his intentions here? What has he been doing all this time?

John moves to draw him away from the sink, but Harold’s body stiffens and he doesn’t move. “You should put ice on that,” John says.

Harold takes his hand out of John’s grip and says, deliberately, “I know how to handle myself, Mr. Reese.” It does not sound as level as he had meant it to, his head spinning from sudden realizations and implications, but John seems to understand what he intended, the purposeful formality of it, and he steps away. 

The evening goes quiet. Harold does not stay long after dinner. He doesn’t contact John the next day. There is no new number, and so no need for it. It is as if he has been overloaded with data that he isn’t sure how to sort through, that he doesn’t know how to feel about. Surely this, all of this, this impulse to reach out that’s been so constant for weeks he’s all but ignored and forgotten its presence, is dangerous, foolish. Wrong, even. He is still a man engaged to be married, technically. Though, technically, he is also a dead one, or a missing one. One that never existed at all.

Harold goes to the last place John would look for him: the tiny railroad apartment in the Hells Kitchen walkup, with the peeling paint and the exposed heating pipes. It had reminded him so much of his student apartment with Nathan in Cambridge that he had gone through the trouble of buying the entire building to keep it, and had done very little work to fix it up. He spends his nights there listening to the television programs of the couple that lives upstairs and he does not make a sound.

John adapts to Harold’s cooler behavior easily enough. He does not need to accompany Harold on errands or on walks with Bear if he has other things to do, Harold points out. He goes back to whatever it is he does on his own in the city. John is rather good at following Harold’s lead in all things.

Except, of course, when granted the opportunity to dramatically sacrifice himself for the good of some cause; then there’s just no talking to him. Harold considers it one of his major character flaws and he is going to tell him that after he breaks him out of prison but then everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.

-

After the events on the rooftop, Harold isn’t certain what to say. He doubts he could’ve been more obvious in his feelings when he hadn’t been sure if they would make it, and it is not as though he would like to retract them, now. The truth is that there had not been very much time for talking after the timer had been deactivated, when they were escaping the building surrounded by police. Which means now that they have both lived and Kara Stanton is no longer a threat, well, Harold is not certain where they stand, and he would like to be. He finds he has a significant stake not only in where they are but where he wants them to be. Getting them there can’t possibly be harder than disarming a bomb, can it?

And yet, Harold stays silent. The two of them spend the day in the library, John performing maintenance on his weapons and Harold trying to search out exactly what code Kara had uploaded with that drive. It was well designed, and it’s going to be difficult to unravel. Harold loses himself in the work so completely that it’s a shock when John puts a hand on the back of his chair and Harold looks up to find it’s growing dark.

“You should eat something,” John says.

“Ah,” Harold agrees, his eyes going instinctively to the stash of microwave meals they keep in the corner. John’s hand moves to grip his shoulder, gently.

“No,” he says, “you need to get out.” It’s familiar, this, John recognizing that he has trepidations of leaving his computers after how close he had been to death last night, and dragging him away. John knowing what he needs. “Let me make you something.”

They stop at Chelsea Market on the way, a place packed with people. Harold is not sure if he feels more or less safe in a crowd these days, with the constant threat of a target on their backs. They buy several bottles of wine and Harold is not sure if he should object, given John’s history. “It’s for the stew,” John says, easily, acknowledging his discomfort and deftly disarming it.

It’s a long cab ride uptown to John’s loft, a relatively long time of staying silent compared to three minutes and fourteen seconds flashing on a screen before his eyes, and yet somehow Harold does not mind that they say nothing, sitting close together to make room for all of their bags. He does not mind that they say nothing as they take the elevator up to top floor and unload everything onto the marble top of John’s kitchen island. He does not mind that they say nothing while John cooks and Harold watches him. It feels so natural he doesn’t even try to excuse it when John looks up at him. He just meets his eye and smiles, suddenly, at the familiarity of it, the relief. This is temporary, he thinks, this could be taken from him at any time, but right now it is his. There isn’t anything he has to say about it in the end, because they are already, wordlessly, on the same page. All this time Harold has been looking for the right way to explain himself when, really, all he had to do is accept what is being offered, what John has been showing him all along.

“I’m going to stay,” he says, abruptly, perfectly, everything coming naturally to him for the first time in a long time.

“For dinner?” John asks, smirking, but more softly than usual. “I should hope so. It’s a lot of food I just made, Harold.”

“No, I meant after,” Harold says, without having to think about it, “I’m going to stay after,” and he has the truly singular pleasure of watching John’s smirk turn into an honest, open smile. It seems Harold had the right idea of it after all.


End file.
